On July 4th, 2006, I embarked on a quest to become the pre-eminent American portrait painter of the 21st century. This blog chronicles that journey. With apologies to Joan Didion, I call it THE YEAR OF MAGICAL PAINTING.

Thursday, March 07, 2013

That Boy Could Sure Eat Some Beets

My old friend Michele Litzky celebrates the 25th anniversary of Litzky Public Relations, her eponymous marketing machine. Which is alarming, given that she and I worked together prior to her starting her agency, and that makes me feel old. I can tell you from experience that her public relations skills are as sharp as Johnny B. Goode ringing that bell -- if you catch my drift -- and if you, dear reader, are in a position of authority in some God-forsaken marketing department for some massive corporate entity somewhere off in the distance, I would urge you to hire her. The website is this.

Note: Having inspected the website, I'm not sure financial PR or investor relations are her strongest suit, but I'm sure, if you paid her enough money, she'd pick it up.

Anyway, she, me and a guy named John Bailey worked at a small PR firm years ago. I'd give you my frank assessment of the firm itself, but that would likely end in anger, tears, recrimination and libel suits. Enough said. Besides, celebrating Michele's milestone really just makes me think back fondly to the adventures I had with my old buddy John. And it's hard enough to stay positive doing that.

Brief aside: Part of the fun of owning a blog as big as TYOMP is that you completely forget half the stuff you posted in, say, 2009. Moments ago, looking for a photo of my old iPod, I typed the word 'beets' into the search box and found this ...

It's from a portrait I did of Julian Schnabel called Nipple/Schnabel. The reason being -- and don't ask me to explain beyond what I'm about to say -- I did a pretty large portrait of the guy for an upstate show I was doing, and at the time I was very into dividing the paintings into one-foot squares and attacking them in a square-by-square manner. With Schnabel, who is sort of annoying, I decided to cut small holes at the intersecting lines of the grid and poke baby-bottle nipples through from the back. I then lightly illuminated the painting from the back, hung it on a wall, and the rest is history.

Anyway, years later, John and I used to go to the Gramercy Tavern on rainy winter afternoons and sweet-talk the hostess into letting us sit at the round table for five right in the front window and quietly make spectacles of ourselves. Our general MO was quite a bit of chardonnay, a dozen oysters each, and then something else. JB loved the roasted beet salad, and really, who could blame him? They also had a braised pork belly that was so magnificent it became both world-famous and the foundation block upon which Tom Colicchio built his entire empire.

One tough piece of meat, cooked slowly for a long time on a low heat and suddenly you're famous. God bless the man.

One of the things John and I did, once the chardonnay had kicked in, was compose one-liners we wanted written on our gravestones. I don't remember mine, but I remember what we came up with for him. He'd just inhaled his roasted beet salad and one of us looked at the other and said "That boy could sure eat some beets." At which point we started laughing so hard the other patrons looked at us askance. The hostess, who was extremely attractive, looked at us the way beautiful women can look at you and make you want to be a better man. For her. Surely you know the feeling? Eyebrows raised, if you will? That passed quickly, though, and we continued to giggle through what was left of the lunch.

Then, not a year later, 2003ish maybe (but who knows? I'm not a linear thinker), I was sitting at my desk, reading the paper when a call came through from John's boss. Odd, I thought. And he was calling to tell me that John had died the night before. Which made me damned sad for a damned long time. Honestly, to this day I read or see something peculiar or funny and think to myself that JB would have gotten a kick out of it.

I missed his memorial service. His wife and I loathed each other, and I knew she'd never go for that whole "sure could eat some beets" thing, so I side-stepped the whole thing and had a couple of oysters and a beet salad at the GT on the day of.

Hey, we all grieve in our own way.

Back in those days, if you ordered an iPod from Apple directly, they'd engrave something on the back for you. A couple of months after John died I bought one and had them write this ...

You really are a massive softy, aren't you?Yes I am.Yet most people think you're fierce and dark.But really I'm like snowflakes in the sunshine.

It's an interesting picture: an early iPod in front of an iPad shot by an iPhone, which you can see, along with the top of my head, reflected from the back of the iPod.

JB was an extraordinary man. He was an irascible, sarcastic son of a bitch, but the gentle, loving way he talked about his young son gives me a lump just typing this. He also told me that in college he could recite the entirety of Desolation Row. Which goes, if memory serves, something like this ...

They’re selling postcards of the hanging

They’re painting the passports brownThe beauty parlor is filled with sailorsThe circus is in townHere comes the blind commissionerThey’ve got him in a tranceOne hand is tied to the tight-rope walkerThe other is in his pantsAnd the riot squad they’re restlessThey need somewhere to goAs Lady and I look out tonightFrom Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy“It takes one to know one,” she smilesAnd puts her hands in her back pocketsBette Davis styleAnd in comes Romeo, he’s moaning“You Belong to Me I Believe”And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friendYou better leave”And the only sound that’s leftAfter the ambulances goIs Cinderella sweeping upOn Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hiddenThe stars are beginning to hideThe fortune-telling ladyHas even taken all her things insideAll except for Cain and AbelAnd the hunchback of Notre DameEverybody is making loveOr else expecting rainAnd the Good Samaritan, he’s dressingHe’s getting ready for the showHe’s going to the carnival tonightOn Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the windowFor her I feel so afraidOn her twenty-second birthdayShe already is an old maidTo her, death is quite romanticShe wears an iron vestHer profession’s her religionHer sin is her lifelessnessAnd though her eyes are fixed uponNoah’s great rainbowShe spends her time peekingInto Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin HoodWith his memories in a trunkPassed this way an hour agoWith his friend, a jealous monkHe looked so immaculately frightfulAs he bummed a cigaretteThen he went off sniffing drainpipesAnd reciting the alphabetNow you would not think to look at himBut he was famous long agoFor playing the electric violinOn Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his worldInside of a leather cupBut all his sexless patientsThey’re trying to blow it upNow his nurse, some local loserShe’s in charge of the cyanide holeAnd she also keeps the cards that read“Have Mercy on His Soul”They all play on pennywhistlesYou can hear them blowIf you lean your head out far enoughFrom Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtainsThey’re getting ready for the feastThe Phantom of the OperaA perfect image of a priestThey’re spoonfeeding CasanovaTo get him to feel more assuredThen they’ll kill him with self-confidenceAfter poisoning him with wordsAnd the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls“Get Outa Here If You Don’t KnowCasanova is just being punished for goingTo Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agentsAnd the superhuman crewCome out and round up everyoneThat knows more than they doThen they bring them to the factoryWhere the heart-attack machineIs strapped across their shouldersAnd then the keroseneIs brought down from the castlesBy insurance men who goCheck to see that nobody is escapingTo Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s NeptuneThe Titanic sails at dawnAnd everybody’s shouting“Which Side Are You On?”And Ezra Pound and T. S. EliotFighting in the captain’s towerWhile calypso singers laugh at themAnd fishermen hold flowersBetween the windows of the seaWhere lovely mermaids flowAnd nobody has to think too muchAbout Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday(About the time the doorknob broke)When you asked how I was doingWas that some kind of joke?All these people that you mentionYes, I know them, they’re quite lameI had to rearrange their facesAnd give them all another nameRight now I can’t read too goodDon’t send me no more letters, noNot unless you mail themFrom Desolation Row

For the benefit of those of you who are totally clueless, or like twenty years old, I would add it was written by Bob Dylan. All rights reserved, I would assume.

There's a line from the song scrawled on my portrait of Jamie Dimon ...

If I'd thought ahead, I would have written "Happy Anniversary Michele" on it too. But that painting is long gone. As it happens, though, I'm right in the middle of my Uncle Sam project ...